


In the Basin

by Still_and_Clear



Series: In the Basin [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Eventual Fred Squared, First attempt at writing anything, Gen, I was meant to have a structure?, Introspection, It'll get better later, Lightly angsty, Please Don't Kill Me, Random Chilton musing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random musings of Frederick Chilton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Basin

**Author's Note:**

> I've not written anything before - but I get so much enjoyment from reading other people's fics that I felt I wanted to contribute something instead of just consuming all the time. Plus, the Hannibal fandom seems generally lovely. I don't even know what this is - random drabble-ish stuff maybe? I'll probably do a couple more following on from this. Happy for any feedback :)
> 
> This will end up with Fred Squared, so bear with me: I'll make him happy eventually. There might be flashbacks to gore - but nothing more than that. There will be no sexy-times. I found it hard enough to write the mechanics of Frederick walking through his kitchen and making cocoa - let alone anything more physically ambitious :)

It was cold inside his bright, white house, even though the sun was hot outside, and the silence buzzed loud in his ears. He dropped his keys on the counter, and startled slightly at how loudly they jangled in the still house. Frederick grimaced, his nerves still on edge from his day at work. Graham continued to be uncooperative, treating him with an amusement that bordered infuriatingly on condescension. He could almost _taste_ the acclaim that would follow his illumination of Graham’s wonderful, defective psychology, but Will’s attitude ensured that this prize remained tauntingly out of reach.

Not that he should have expected anything else, he thought petulantly. Frederick had always found those things he wanted were just out of reach. He had attended his _second_ choice college. Surgery had very quickly proved to be a hopeless dream, although one – which if he was entirely honest with himself – he had not been completely sorry to abandon. The admiring gaze that the academic community bestowed on Hannibal was a stingy, disdainful glance when cast in his direction. The overly eager child Frederick had been, straining to raise his hand first in class, keen to show how clever he was, had not changed as a man. His publications too frequent, his shoes too polished, his office too big, his tiepin too showy – his peers seemed to find this evidence of effort, this straining after success, somehow distasteful. Their rejection stung, but Frederick still longed for their approbation as much as he resented them.

Frederick looked up from the counter and glanced around him. He liked his house, and the things he had chosen to put in it. _Things_ were much more attainable than good opinion. Still, though, the emptiness of the house underlined another of his failures. He had hoped to have wonderful, glittering dinner parties here with notables in the field. Colleagues round for drinks and discussion. Friends over for lunch. And perhaps someone special, eventually living here with him – although his brain quickly shied away from the burden of contemplating his romantic shortcomings alongside his career failures. One disappointment at a time, please.

Feeling suddenly raw with self-pity, and in need of instant comfort, he decided to make himself some of the stupidly expensive cocoa that Hannibal had recommended. Rifling through the cupboard to find it, he came across some of the cheap cookies he actually liked stashed at the back. He chose not to dwell on the fact that he hid the food he actually liked behind the food he wanted people to think he ate, finding such an obvious psychological observation too prosaic for his analysis. He was not an epicure – unlike Hannibal, he reflected ruefully. Try as he might, his palate betrayed him by remaining stubbornly devoted to the sort of quick fix comfort food he had learned to make at college. Limping over the cupboard, he took out a pot, and stared balefully down at the milk as he waited for it to heat.


End file.
